


dance, dance, baby

by Hectopascal



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Gender or Sex Swap, Multi, fem!Peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:31:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shots from various fem!Peter verses. Some things are the same and some are not, but the Walkman will always reign supreme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it was an accident

The thing was.

She hadn’t done it on purpose. Really. It was an accident.

Her eyes were still burning from the bucket of tears she’d shed, first out of grief and then out of terror. Her neck was numb from anesthesia – injected via horrific alien gun with a needle the size of a pencil – and the back of her shirt was actually damp from the blood she’d lost during impromptu surgery.

Surgery she’d been _awake_ for because the aliens thought it was more fun to hold her down while she wiggled and thrashed and said a great many words her grandpa would wash her mouth out for than knock her out wholesale.

So she was angry, yes, and scared out of her mind. An alien – _a real alien, this was like first contact or something but it was_ not cool _at all_ – grinned at her with nightmarishly sharp and crooked teeth. The teeth were a pure golden yellow, like corn on the cob, but the lips that framed them were blue. Dark blue like Blue Raspberry, her favorite Popsicle flavor, which tasted oh-so-sweet. But it wasn’t dye, it was skin. Real, actual skin.

Some of the aliens had blue skin – one had what looked like a glass rectangle stapled to his head, _owww_ – and some didn’t. Some were human colored, shades of peach and brown. One was a soft red, like a lava lamp, glowy and bright.

The world swam in her blurry vision like she was looking through a magic mirror at a funhouse, warping everything crazier than it should be. There was a sharp _clink_ sound as some doctor-like instrument was set down next to her head, directly in her line of sight.

She didn’t recognize it, and she’d been spending a lot of time in a hospital lately. It didn’t look nice, though. There was a bit on it that looked like a miniature saw and another that shined in a way that made her think it was quite sharpish.

Both were **red** and dripping.

There was a trigger and a grip on the opposite end – _like a gun_ , she thought, reaching for similarities she could identify – and then a pipe underneath the scary parts that called to mind horror movies she wasn’t supposed to have watched but did. All the time. Snuck to the bottom of the stairs to peer over the couch so she could see the TV.

_Sorry, Mom. I shoulda been a better kid. Then maybe you wouldn’t have got sick._

She could have done better, a lot better. If she had known what was coming then she would have been the best, most well behaved, responsible kid a mom could want.

She wouldn’t have made messes or fussed about bedtimes or hit that stupidhead Tommy at school for snitching her lunch cookie. It had been peanut butter, her favorite, but she’d give up a million peanut butter cookies if Mom would have just, just stayed.

And quite suddenly the aliens were speaking English.

The blue guy with the rectangle in his head asked, “What’s your name, boy?”

His teeth were almost _orange_ – square Halloween jack-o’-lanterns – between the ones that were silver. Neat.

An odd ditty swam through her foggy head: _Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater, had a wife but couldn’t keep her; he put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well._

“Peter,” she slurred, forgetting the rest. How did a person live in a pumpkin? How did they fit?

“Okay, Peter,” the Captain – he had to be the Captain – said. “What my doctor here just stuck in your neck is a translator. Means that now we can have interesting conversations about what is and is not allowed onboard my ship.”

 _Whoser Peter?_ she wondered. _Does he got something stuck in his head too?_

“Rule 1: Do not speak to my crew unless asked a direct question, you hear?”

That was about when she passed out, deliriously thinking, _oh. He means me._

And even when she woke up, it wasn’t _that_ far off really so she just…never bothered to correct anyone. Besides, she kinda liked it. Like a secret codename.

Hey, spies were cool.

But space pirate spies were better.

And then she was Peter. _Peter_ Quill. It had a nice ring to it.


	2. it was an accident (probably)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter (Piper in this particular verse) knows regret.

Piper wakes up pleasantly numb. It’s always the way after nights spent clubbing and drinking herself into a nice blackout stupor.

Where other — truly unfortunate — people get hangovers, she just gets warm and fuzzy as her body bids farewell to the last dregs of alcohol in her system.

At least she seems to have managed to navigate her way back to the ship because she’s definitely passed out in her bunk, the scratchy blanket against her face is so familiar that she doesn’t even need to open her eyes to recognize it.

“Mmm,” Piper groans and slits her eyes open. Just because she’s never had any experience with the oh-so-dreaded ‘morning after regrets’ doesn’t mean she enjoys swinging right back into responsible mode after intense playtime.

Still, her personal feelings about it aside, there is work to be done and the faster she does it, the sooner she can hop right back down to that bar with the super cool jukebox with (what sounds suspiciously like) new Terran songs she’s never heard before.

It might be the best place she’s ever gotten drunk in, which considering her lifestyle says something. Sweet tunes, pretty people to look at, and _some really fucking strong_ drinks. Oh yeah, she’s definitely going to party there again.

Piper sniffs — ugh, she’s going to wash the bedding too because it smells like funk, _gross_ — and rolls out of her bunk, landing on her knees and groaning again. She wants to crawl under the covers (because they might reek but she doesn’t have to breathe them in, now does she?) and laze the day away.

She’s not _going to_ but…meh. Whatever.

Piper levers herself to her feet and there’s a twinge in her side that penetrates the sleepy haze. She looks down, resigned and expecting the worst because she had actually been stabbed once and not noticed until she sobered up (it had been a small knife apparently) but there’s no slowly oozing stain on her shirt or her pants which is a nice surprise.

Curious now, she prods her hip and the stinging grows more intense. Well. She pulls her shirt up and there’s a smooth, flesh-colored bandage sticking to her side, tucked into her pants and — Piper wiggles her leg experimentally — continuing a few inches down her thigh.

Huh. Its nicer medical care than any Ravager or her inebriated self would have bothered with, so where…?

She picks at the wrinkled edges until she can get a good grip and peel it back far enough to see red, raw, sore skin and then ugly swollen silver ink. So Piper’s evidently joined the legions of folks who’ve paid for a tattoo that they don’t remember getting. Good to know it’s not anything serious.

She narrows her eyes at her bandage, shrugs, and pats it back into place. She’ll examine the tangible product of her bad decision making later at her leisure. Piper kinda hopes that she had good taste last night in the grips of this latest bender. Her judgment usually gets a tad screwy and if she’s saddled herself with something stupid, she’s going to be ticked when she pays to remove it.

That settled, Piper shuffles off to the bathroom, yawning.

*

She checks the entirety of her new tattoo. Stares down at it for a long minute. Goes to find a mirror and stares some more. And then she starts cursing, loud and creative.

_Nope_. Nope, nope, nopity nope, no, sir. This little bastard’s so fine it’s probably here to stay.       

The real question is, how did she even manage to convey so much damn _detail_ when she doesn’t even remember getting it? And for that matter, why the _ever-loving_ _fuck_ did her wasted self think it was a good idea to get Yondu’s fucking arrow tattooed over her hip?

The man has enough delusions about ownership already, he doesn’t need any more.

Still, so long as nobody _ever finds out about this_ _ever_ , it might even be okay. Looks kinda badass.

Naturally, that exact moment is when Kraglin walks in.


End file.
